From being an Abandoned who had rarely left the Hollowed Grounds, to embracing the call of adventure, to dying and being reborn first as an Ascended and then as an Ancient, Maea has gone through quite the amount of changes in her life. One thing remains common, though, in her attempts to find out just where she belongs; she’s always had a craving for knowledge which has brought her to so many places and to meet so many people here in Caido. We can’t wait to see what else is in store for her!
Congratulations, Maea!
Credits
Court of the Fallen was created in October of 2018 by Odd, Honey, and Crooked.
Skinning and hosting by the epically talented Kaons, and functionality fanciness by the coding magic of Neowulf. If you ever see either of them around, make sure to show them some love!
12-27-2019, 11:29 PM (This post was last modified: 02-05-2020, 12:27 PM by Clemente.)
Clemente
Amun had told him that the best way to honor and help The Voice was to learn, listen, and explore. So he had ventured beyond the Portal once more, except this time with a purpose. The cold doesn't bother him, nerveless skin remaining fair instead of red-hued beneath the biting wind. The Citadel is magnificent, looming out of the pale landscape like an ominous crown. It's weirdly medieval, but Clem doesn't have much to compare it to. He'd come from a high-tech city and then been dropped immediately into the Hollowed Grounds.
The people are - well honestly, his kind of people. Wary, hard-eyed, rough edged. They don't care what he's doing so long as it doesn't impact them, and he feels the same of them. It reminds him of the other street urchins, who would sooner cut your hand off and eat it than share a morsel. It's probably not socially healthy for the Ascended boy to feel more at ease and accepted here than anywhere else, but nobody is really around to judge him for it.
He trades the jackets Rexanna had given him for passage, bartering fiercely with the stall manager before walking away with his new wares. There is simultaneously so much and nothing at all to do, and instead he lingers around, listens to the few words people speak until they chase him away to the next place he hovers.
The Sword had yet to fully explore the Halo region, despite all his prior excitement over its existence. A portion of him had deigned and dreamed it to be much like the Basin, and perhaps that was where the disappointment lingered in his lungs, because it wasn’t, and couldn’t be, and the mountains were not the same. He should have known better than to place some blind, nostalgic faith in its credentials, but that nefarious heart had twisted and coiled in its ether, in the reminders behind his eyes, in the memories of primordial yesteryears, wicked things and dominations he still craved. The auroras were not theirs. The ice was not theirs. The summits were not theirs. It was just another region, just another world.
But still, he endured.
Deimos rummaged through the portal with another extension of meat – fowl this time – before shifting into a bird himself, passing by the contortions of the wilderness, having already entangled his frame within the outlines of the tundra. The Citadel didn’t exactly declare open invitations, but it was a city, flanked in its high defenses and society entanglements, curiosity suiting him fine in drifting along the air, coasting upon the chilling winds, descending on occasion to land upon a stony fixture and watch passers-by. Distinct, piercing eyes took in the rest of the surroundings, the palace situated in the center, as if it too was encased and enshrouded in ice, in glacial wares, and then the market, the hustle and bustle amongst the cold. He stood quite still for a time, before taking flight once more, safely gliding and hovering above stalls, kiosks, and merchandise, only landing to grip a nearby wall, study, examine, and scrutinize again.
01-15-2020, 04:31 AM (This post was last modified: 02-05-2020, 12:28 PM by Clemente.)
Clemente
Clem is no bird watcher by any means, but even he can't ignore the majestic bird that sweeps around the kiosks he's loitering around. The only birds he'd ever known in his life before Caido had been crows and pigeons, so for a moment he simply stares. Trailing after the bird as it flits from booth to booth, large talons gripping wood and stone structures alike. Clem digs in his pocket for a strip of the jerky he'd brought to trade - meaningful to the Halo residents and effectively useless to Clemente, a perfect exchange - and tries to approach from the side, holding it up in offering to the beautiful thing. Wondering if birds like that even eat jerky, though the ones in his homeworld had never been particularly picky. Much like he had been.
"Here birdy," he croons softly, though his voice is far from suited to such delicate notions. Part of him wonders if the bird is valuable, its feathers and bones, but quickly casts the thought away. He still cringes away from the idea of taking a life of any kind, animal or human, and he's more intrigued by the beautiful creature than interested in harvesting it for goods he will never need or use.
The Sword hadn’t expected any outright attention from anyone else; blending back into the confines, studying the people, the perimeters, of a world not his own (none of them were, really, not anymore). A large bird might’ve been comfortable anywhere along these regions, and he’d given no thought to drawing consideration or contemplation at his appearance; typically skulking and searching the shadows, sketched in its embrace, unfolded and unraveled in its darker adornments. The croon of another, a boy, caused him to snap his head over, a predator’s keen eyes, watching, scrutinizing: one more stranger in a series and cycle of unknown properties. He considered ignoring him entirely, flying off to the next interval and waiting for something else to happen, to occur, or to remain a part of the listless, languid backdrop, breathing in the winter, mountain air, pretending for a moment that he’d been a part of this earth. He considered brandishing his massive wingspan, the sharp talons, in order to warn the lad off, to appear more menacing, malicious, tendencies of upheaval and anarchy in the wake of whatever form he chose. He considered shifting back into his human form and watching the youth blink back surprise, bewilderment, or shock.
But then the temptation of the carnivore ambitions stoked inside him, and he reached forward, quickly, efficiently, to grab the jerky from outstretched hands; reeling back just as swiftly to avoid any other repercussions. Just to be a caustic, unrelenting imp, he maneuvered along the wall too, as if to snag and then escape, attempting to evade further debacles.
02-01-2020, 07:31 AM (This post was last modified: 02-05-2020, 12:27 PM by Clemente.)
Clemente
The massive creature snaps its head over to him as he croons, making him nearly jump out of his skin. Okay, fucking creepy. Still Clem is a stubborn boy, and continues edging closer with the jerky outstretched. If he loses a finger at least he can join the elite Ascended Amputees Club with the rest of his family, plus he'll have a cool story to tell.
Jerky is snatched from his fingers quickly enough that if he were still human he'd probably have friction burn, but instead he merely blinks big eyes at the carnivorous raptor. "You're like, totally a dinosaur dude. You're so cool." Then his nose wrinkles, eyeing the bird awkwardly. "Or er...dinosaur miss? Dame? Whatever. Want more jerky?" Because talking to any living creature when you're a lonely street kid is pretty much par for the course. A habit he's still not fully broken of.
Digging for more jerky he offers it to the bird once more, wondering how long he can keep it there before it either eats his hand or flies off. Giving up the food is totally worth it to keep blatantly staring.
Instead of fending the kid off, he appeared to have merely enticed and contorted more attention. In his human form he might have sneered or given off obvious, intimidating auras, vestiges of incriminating, treacherous considerations, a leave me alone sign flaring, perceptible to anyone with half a brain. Uncertain on the dinosaur comment (if it was a compliment or not), and tilting his head a fraction at the cool endeavor (because he couldn’t recall a time anyone had ever dared to call him that), the beast remained still, pondering how to get rid of the child. He could peck him. Bite him. Threaten. Condemn. Or merely take off, leave him amongst the markets and mountain air.
Then the youth kept offering more jerky, and the raptorial senses forgot the notion entirely, snagging and snatching, and then maneuvering further down the wall. An air of warning brandished in the outstretch of his wings, vicious, wild plumage, a clicking of his beak around the meat.
02-05-2020, 12:22 PM (This post was last modified: 02-05-2020, 12:27 PM by Clemente.)
Clemente
It's pretty hard to hold a decent conversation with a large bird that can't talk back, but Clem is stubborn. Just another hurdle in this new friendship. Soon he'll be running around in the snow with his awesome eagle hunting partner, singlehandedly supplying all of Halo with furs and meat that he'll never need. The fantasy is appealing, though the prospect of being a falconer is dampened by the idea that the dino-bird might still decide that he looks human enough to try taking a chunk of flesh out of him.
Whatever the bird is thinking (can birds think in the traditional sense?) it doesn't seem to matter as much as the second piece of jerky that Clem offers. This too is snapped from his fingers and devoured in mere seconds, the boy still staring grinning at the display in total awe even as the bird brandishes its wings like shields and moves farther away. "Aw com'on I ain't gonna hurt ya," he pouts, but the cheer is still too bright in his voice to make it effective. "We can be buddies! We can go huntin' together and stuff!" Couldn't parrots understand human language? Could an eagle? Maybe it would understand and have a change of heart.
Deimos understood tenacity and fortitude, but perhaps the lad was incapable of taking hints. A little thick in the skull? Too bold for his own good? The beast had absolutely no intention of becoming anyone’s pet – let alone hunting for this child – the notion sounded utterly insane, deranged, and asinine. While he’d been foiled by the jerky twice, the natural, instinctual swing of the raptor inclinations winning over any human contortions, the reality of the pressing matters honed in on too many other ridiculous situations. Not here to play, not here to ruse, not here to do anything other than observe. He’d need to make his escape.
One last warning was issued with an unearthly screech and an unwinding of his beak, sharpened talons gripping hold of stone, before casting him completely aloft, for an instant airborne, drifting off of walls, before plummeting headlong, a rush of descent. Evasion – something he knew well, to be an isolated, detached formation on mountain paths. Perhaps the summits in the backdrop only brought the need, the sensations, to succumb to those nonchalant, reticent, reserved tactics all over again. Hoping the youth would be dismayed, waylaid, distracted, or otherwise occupied, the General fell down, down, down, in between market stalls and crowds of people, only to shift behind some kiosk, returning to his former presence and prowess, man once again, maneuvering amongst the middling crowd. Blending as an eagle hadn’t been feasible, unfortunately, and with his mass maybe it wouldn’t be achieved in this moment either, but he intended to try.
Yeah well, Clem may know next to nothing about birds any bigger than a seagull, but he can certainly figure out when he isn't wanted. Ducking away he turns his face away from the eagle, cringing instinctively away from the shrieking and aggressive flapping in fear of retaliation. "Sorry, sorry," he mutters out of capitulating instinct more than any sincere remorse. Though that quickly changes when the bird takes flight, swooping away from him in a majestic arc that only seems to emphasize Clem's ridiculous notions of companionship.
Sighing, the boy re-clasps his bag and adjusts his gloves and scarf. There is next to no sun penetrating through the thick snow clouds overhead, but it's enough for him to have turned the scarf into a makeshift loose headwrap. No sense in courting combustion for the sake of a cranky bird, or even crankier citizens. Clemente returns to the bustle of the crowds, hissing and snapping insults when people shove carelessly against him. They are just as unkind in return, which is just fine by Clem. Until he recognizes the stoic face that he is approaching in the street, frowning and pausing, someone shoulder checking him because of the sudden stop. Clem grumbles and sweeps out of the throng towards Deimos, only able to recognize him because of how seriously he'd taken Wessex's orders to observe the world around him, and how he'd reported the events of the political meeting to her. "Hey, ain't ya our General? Whatcha doin' out this far?" Suspicion turns tawny eyes sharp and narrow, fearlessly drawing himself up in front of the man despite the differences in their heights and the awareness that the literal leader of their military forces could probably crush him in one giant hand.
Deimos rendered no further expectations for this venture, snapping the remains of the jerky and swallowing them down, other than memorizing, analyzing, and taking everything in. Thinking he’d lost the wayward, would-be falconer, he parted some portions of the crowd by size alone, wandering into the midst of the market, calculating, perusing. Anyone who shoved against him would find themselves repelled by his bulk, though none seemed vastly intimidated – too busy, in a rush, gathering their supplies along the thresholds of arctic precision. It was nearly comfortable, as if he could close his eyes and imagine the swarm of the Aurora Basin, alive and enervated despite the magnitude of its mountains, the range of discord, the perilous intervals of danger and treachery. They’d all had their moments.
Except it turned out the youth had not gone away (and the Sword wasn’t certain whether he was amused or irritated), the grumbling, ridiculous amount of suspicion in the boy’s eyes worth chuckling about in another time, another place. Being questioned was asinine as well, and the General was half-tempted to not even deliver a response. It would’ve been very easy to turn away again, return to Reaper footfalls, weigh down the lacquer of appeal, inquiries, and cast his seditious ire elsewhere. Except he had a place, not in this world, but in others, and apparently it designated him to be a bearer of answers, no matter how mundane. “Exploring.” He continued threading his way through the occupants around them, as if they were swimming upstream, twisting back over his shoulder only to deliver the lad the same inquiry – though with less derisive notions – a very apathetic look upon his face. “And you?”
The man is like a brick wall, and not just physically. Clem squints up at him, the glare of the pale grey sky annoying even if he can't feel the sting of pain it would have once caused. Clem's fists find his hips instinctively, heedless of how ridiculous he might look puffing up like an alley cat in front of the world's largest battle-scarred dog. Who would he be if he didn't pick fights he can't win?
"What, ya allergic to words?" he tosses back before imitating Deimos' posture, setting his face in an exaggerated stony expression. "Exploring." He drops his voice as low as it will go, imitating the deep rumble of the older man, only to snort and ruin the look as he shoves his hands into his pockets. "I'm here t'be an asshole tourist, duh," Clem says while rolling his eyes. "Cuz ain't nobody givin' up info freely, and the hell is there to explore but snow?" This question is aimed more directly at Deimos, a disgruntled look on his own face. He despises snow, and has no idea why anybody would want to go walking around in it just for the sake of exploration. Especially if they can still feel pain and cold.
If the youth intended to be threatening or intimidating to someone with the Sword’s experience, might, strength, and prowess, he’d certainly have to try harder than a puffed chest and poor imitations. Deimos regarded him with the same apathetic, insouciant demeanor, still, stone, a backdrop of marble, forbearing, once encountering so many of this child’s ilk. Some had been emboldened, like Kiada, with potential and purpose, some had been considered as naught more than yapping dogs; and only the tilt of his head, a dangerous, treacherous gaze, indicated his scrutiny again, contemplating where this irritating child would fit. He could always knock his skull from his shoulders, and the answer would never be found. “Effective,” ignoring the quip about his lack of words, not inviting more discourse on the subject. Because he chose to keep everything guarded, close to his chest, where vulnerabilities didn’t frequently stray, where the weight of his phrases held more merit than constant, wagging tongues. He’d been taunted enough in the past for the same notions, and they were paltry, trivial nothings.
He began to move along once more, turning, shifting entirely away, as if the boy held no value to his time, when he could’ve been wandering deeper and further into information and sagacity. It was unfortunate inquisition didn’t extend to everyone, and the insults towards snow was barely felt (because Deimos knew, far, far more about summits, about peaks, about valleys, nestled into surroundings of power and prestige, about being left alone at the top of the world, at dominion, supremacy, and glorious, intimidating savagery). “Then you have not seen much,” he answered in return, walking further down the marketplace – memories served along disastrous abilities of dragons, ancient creatures floating along seas of glass, genies and their bizarre proclamations, and cannibals hiding in deep caverns.
